Lost Time

So sensitive to touch, the light freezes, pauses in despair of toppling what is left. Time does not bend, does not press forward, instead the clock relapses, it re ticks the moments to find the beginning, to find the meaning of itself. Each hand moves slower than the next, forgetting to cover open mouths in awe of what has become, anger floats through the timbers of thought and heart bleeds from swelling anguish. The end of it all has never been an option, the edge of this cliff is erased from the canvas, yet it finds away to approach, reproach what is logic, what is meaning, and what is myth. All practical applications of fair living, of reasonable being are demolished through this demolishing of sorts, a cohort of abominations, and the tears dry out across the landscape of hardened cheekbones. Time tenses, it fidgets endlessly, confusion setting across its plain, no tick is left unnoticed, but no tick is left without misunderstanding. It is a cheater, a faux friend in a land of meaningless space, it finds no shape in these flat hills, and protruding valleys. So sensitive is the touch, one single touch.